


Memories like Wounds (hold them closer, keep them safe)

by Pareidolia



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Gen, House of Hades Spoilers, M/M, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pareidolia/pseuds/Pareidolia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You always make his favorites,” Bianca complains, but lets herself get reeled in by Mamma too, fishing for a meatball in the soup after she pushes the lid into Nico’s hands.  He tilts it and their reflection gleams on the metal: the three of them, looking so much alike there’s never any doubt they belong to each other.</p><p>Nico escapes for a little while.  Set during <i>Son of Neptune</i>.  Shades of one-sided Percy/Nico.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories like Wounds (hold them closer, keep them safe)

“Nico.”

The sun’s too bright and Nico buries under the covers with a moan. There’s a hand on his back, soothing, and it doesn't make him want to get up any faster.

“Nico, _tesoro mio_.”

The words slide through his bones like mercury and Nico gives in, shivering at the cool morning air. He blinks blearily at the figure perched on his bed.

“Ten minutes,” Mamma tells him, smoothing his hair and rising. “Or Bianca’s going to leave without you.”

* * *

Bianca’s bent over a textbook when he comes downstairs, cap pulled over her hair the way it always is when she hasn't combed it. She’s muttering to herself, tapping the pencil against her cereal bowl in a _clink-clink-clink_ , and Nico peers over her shoulder, making a face when he sees it’s math. She pokes him with the pencil. “Put my bag in the car too, I need to memorize these theorems.”

Nico shoulders their bags and pauses at the door to the garage, turning to look at her: the frown of concentration, the aloof hunch of her shoulders as she radiates _go away, I’m busy_. “I’ll test you on the way,” Nico blurts out, suddenly, achingly desperate to help.

Bianca smiles at him and scoops up the keys, calling out a goodbye to their mother before ushering him out into the garage. The air’s brisk, and Nico pulls closer. He doesn't mind when she makes him carry her bag into school.

* * *

The kitchen smells amazing and Nico drifts to the stove like he’s possessed, unresistant when Mamma hugs him close like he isn't almost as tall as her. “Your favorite,” she tells him. It takes him a moment to remember: _stracciatella_.

“You always make his favorites,” Bianca complains, but lets herself get reeled in by Mamma too, fishing for a meatball in the soup after she pushes the lid into Nico’s hands. He tilts it and their reflection gleams on the metal: the three of them, looking so much alike there’s never any doubt they belong to each other.

“Nico is simple,” Mamma says, batting Bianca’s questing fingers away so she can ladle a meatball into a tiny glass bowl. “Homemade soup, fresh bread, and he is happy. You, _stellina_ , like the complicated gnocchis and raviolis that will take all day to make.”

A memory slips through his mind, he and Bianca at the table, mashing potatoes while they were still hot and soft, Mamma laying out the cutting board and flour. “Maybe we can have gnocchi this weekend,” Nico suggests. “We can both help.”

Mamma rubs his back like he’s five years old again. “Only if you both finish all your studying. Now go, cut the bread and we’ll sit down to eat.”

* * *

Dad’s in town, taking them out to dinner. Much to Bianca’s unhappiness, Mamma insists this means fancy clothes.

“You need a tie,” Bianca says, her gaze no less critical just because she’s upside-down.

Nico looks down at himself, the crisp white shirt, and straightens his collar. “I’m not _old_.”

They’re both on their mother’s bed while she bustles about, getting ready. Bianca’s sprawled out, limbs askew, wrinkling her green dress. It’ll be a miracle if she doesn't have to change. “Mamma, doesn't Nico need a tie?”

Mamma cuts a striking figure in black, and she smiles at Nico when she catches his eye in the mirror. “Yes. And _stellina_ , you cannot wear that dress and not do anything with your hair. Bring your comb and Nico a tie, I’ll put your hair up after you brush it.”

Bianca dashes to their rooms so fast Nico wonders if maybe that was the point -- it’ll turn out better if Mamma does it anyway. She gestures him over to the dresser, and he perches on the bench beside her, watching while she holds various necklaces against her skin, debating which goes best. She asks his opinion but he’s not much help -- she looks beautiful in all of them. He finally clasps a necklace with chains of teardrop diamonds around her neck.

Bianca returns then and he’s banished to the bed with the jewelry chest, tasked with finding matching hair decorations while Mamma works on Bianca’s hair. He picks his way through the drawers of gold, silver, and jewels, wondering how you tell a hairpin from a letter opener from some other piece of jewelry he can’t identify. How do people like having such sharp things so close to their head?

“I should have had you put the curlers in this morning,” Mamma complains to Bianca from the dresser, and he sets aside another bejeweled thing that may or may not belong in hair. 

This drawer is full of blues and greens but there aren't many hair things, and Bianca’s already picked out her own jewelry otherwise. He’s about to move on when a glimpse of color draws his attention. He pushes aside the necklaces and bracelets, and his breath catches.

The pendant is simple, discarded in the back corner of the drawer in favor of fancier things, and Nico pulls it out. The color is what captured him, a beautiful green stone cut into the shape of a sharp-edged starfish, and he’s squeezing it tight enough the points dig into his fist before he notices, holding it to his chest like it’ll soothe his twisting, racing heart. There’s something about it - he should know, _how could he forget_ \--

“Nico,” Bianca says. He startles like the sight of her is a surprise, but how can that be - even with (especially with) her mouth twisted in a frown, no one else is more familiar. She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, _hmms_ , then picks up the pile he’d set aside, returning moments later with a golden barrette gleaming in her dark hair. “Your turn,” she says, draping the tie around his neck. He leans into her mutely while she straightens his collar around the tie, her voice grounding as she complains about how he has it easy, his hair waves nicely all by itself and all he needs is a comb and a nice shirt. She pauses when her gaze drops to his chest, but her touch is cool and he lets her ease his fist open, the vivid green a sharp contrast to the angry red crescents in his skin around it.

“Silly,” Bianca chides, her tone soft and teasing and _known_. “You’re supposed to wear necklaces around your neck.” She clasps it for him, tucks it under his collar, and finishes with his tie, smoothing it before she musses his hair. He flattens it down -- he’s not combing it again.

“Come on,” she says, pulling him up. “Dad’s going to be here any minute and we need to dig out the nice coats.”

* * *

Sometimes, Nico imagines things: a shadow with no one to cast it, a vision of strength burned into his eyes, a smile he should hate. Instead, it makes his heart light up and reminds him, despite everything: _you are someone worth saving_.

But these thoughts have no place in his life, and he tries to dismiss them. He’s always had a big imagination.

* * *

There’s snow on the ground, winter mornings turned colder, and Mamma’s been pestering him about what he wants for his birthday for weeks now. It used to be easy, he couldn’t walk into the toy store without wanting all the new games, but now -- it’s like nothing he can ask for is enough.

“Mamma thinks you’re too embarrassed to ask for what you really want,” Bianca informs him, leaning over him before he’s fully awake. She laughs when he yelps and jumps into the headboard.  
Nico shoots her a dirty look, scrubs at the ache in his head, but sits back against the headboard when Bianca pushes at him, scooching in close and wrapping the blankets around them both. “What could I even ask for that’s so embarrassing?” Nico grumbles.

“That’s what I asked!” She grins at him. “You embarrass yourself enough.”

Nico debates pushing her off the bed, but she sobers, squeezes his hand reassuringly, and maybe he’s always been this big a sap for his sister. “But really Nico, you know Mamma will end up with the whole toy store in here if you don’t tell her anything.”

It’s the weekend, no school today. His room is warm and familiar in shades of red, games stacked in the corner, bookshelf full, clothes he hasn't picked up thrown in a pile by the desk. Mamma must still be sleeping, late riser when she has the choice, and Dad may still be here too; he rarely uses the hotel suites he insists on booking. He and Bianca can talk or doze or play Monopoly -- before Mamma wakes up, because she will insist Dad play with them if he’s still here, and he always crushes them -- and then they can have breakfast while Mamma decides their plans for the day, and Dad, in all his power, can never say no to her. It makes Nico smile; for all that Dad never really looks at him with pride or approval -- Bianca is his favorite, smarter and stronger and independent in a way he can’t be - he wants to be there with them, and Nico won’t be left behind.

“I don’t really want anything,” Nico finally says. His grip’s tight and shaky on Bianca’s, and the rest spills out. “Things are good, aren’t they?”

Bianca studies him, her eyes dark and knowing like their father’s, and she smiles slowly in agreement, dropping her head to his shoulder while she considers him. “They are.”

“But,” Bianca continues, mischievous now, and that’s where the resemblance ends. “I’m not going to believe you’re growing up until you stop spending all day trying to figure out which plane would ‘win’ against the others.” His gaze goes guiltily to the shelves of model planes before he catches the compliment and looks down, suddenly self-conscious, but happy too.

Later, Bianca tugs at his hair to catch his attention and he grumbles sleepily. Their old Monopoly set is strewn on the bed, and Nico had pulled the covers to his nose to sulk. Maybe he dozed off in the process too, but being solidly trounced is exhausting -- Bianca won, got to be the banker (he’s never been), and owns all the railroads (Nico landed on them every other turn). So Nico deserves to rest and Bianca deserves cleaning duty; last he noticed, she was organizing the money like it’s real. “You don’t need to ask for something physical, you know.”

Nico eyes her over the covers, questioning.

“For your birthday,” she clarifies. “You can ask for something else. You can make Dad tell you stories about when he was young, or make him take you jewelry shopping.” She grins, touching the shifting green gem he hasn’t taken off since. “Or ask Mamma to do your hair, I’ve seen how you look at us when she does mine.” She tugs at his hair again. “Yours is definitely long enough.”

Nico lets her pull it back into a faux-ponytail while he turns the thought around in his head. A memory, something he can keep, and never outgrow. “I want something we can do together, just the four of us,” Nico says, imagining it. An image flashes into his head, the sea, incongruous, but he goes with it. “A family vacation, someplace by the sea.”

“It’ll still be cold,” Bianca replies, incredulous. “And you can’t even swim.”

Nico lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug, and he can’t explain it, but he wants it somehow. It’s probably not going to be as nice as he thinks, but he can imagine it, the scent of the ocean, endless deep waters, and the long clean horizon, forever stretching away. And if he has everyone there, he’ll be fine even if it only rains the whole time.

“Okay,” Bianca says when it’s clear he’s set, unwavering from his idea. “We’ll ask Mamma and Dad at breakfast.” She stifles a yawn and shoves him over so she can get more room on the bed; Nico had taken over three-quarters just because losing Monopoly made it justified.

When they go downstairs, and the subject comes up, Dad studies him like he’s doubting his parentage, but Mamma thinks it’s a good idea. Not until March since as much as Bianca and Nico would like otherwise, they can’t miss school so easily, but during their break. It’s something he’ll look forward to, and Nico can wait. They have lots of time.

Nico’s birthday (a school day, because isn’t it always) is almost a week later, and he wakes up to Mamma and Bianca pulling open a birthday cracker, hat and chocolate and a plastic figurine spilling all over him. He’s in the hat before he knows it, Bianca snapping the elastic just because she can, and Mamma snatches the chocolate because he hasn’t brushed his teeth yet. The plastic toy is a satyr, Nico finds out when its horns stab him in the thigh, and he thinks it looks unhappy before he places it on his nightstand and goes downstairs.

That night, Dad’s the only one not in a hat (he had one, but did something to it that made Mamma scowl at him) when the cake comes out. It’s a vivid blue, and Nico stares at it too long. It’s strange -- his favorite color is red and he likes chocolate frosting best.

Blue frosting notwithstanding, It’s the best birthday he’s ever had. Nico knows they do this every year, but this one seems like it’s been a lifetime coming. He beams for every picture until the camera catches the sheen in his eyes.

* * *

There’s something Nico should be doing.

He dreams of them: a girl with eyes of gold (not really his, but his all the same); a boy he can’t look away from (except to hate himself for not being there, not helping because he has so much he can never repay). _I’m sorry_ , he says, but the boy doesn’t notice. His bronze sword slices through the gryphons so easily, and he’s radiant in his protectiveness. People follow his orders like he’s born to lead.

Enemies surround him, but some part of Nico knows the boy’s going to be fine - this time, at least. There’ll be other times -- there have already been so many -- and he’ll be in danger because Nico’s letting him down, _again_.

No apology will be enough. The boy’s gaze is focused now, not on him, but if it were, Nico knows the accusation he would see there. Nico’s heart twists at the memory. He’d promised himself never again, _never again, I won’t be so selfish anymore_ \--

Nico wakes up paralyzed, guilt crushing his ribs. The night is quiet and he bites his tongue, not wanting to disturb it. When he can, he claps his hands over his mouth because he can’t tell if he wants to choke or cry or vomit. It’s not real, he tries to tells himself, but it comes out I’m sorry, _I’m sorry, I don’t remember_.

* * *

The problem is it doesn’t really go away this time. The feeling that he should be doing something, that he’s letting someone down: It’s there while he kisses Mamma’s cheek in the mornings, or elbows Bianca when she tries to manhandle him like he’s a kid again. It’s worst at night, and Nico can see the shadows under his eyes. Dad looks at him like he knows sometimes, but he can’t; he’s never been able to read him like everyone else who matters.

* * *

Dad insists on having dinner alone with him and Bianca. Something in Mamma’s voice when she tells them makes him inexplicably nervous, and Bianca feels it too, grasping for his hand when they’re ushered out of the car.

The hotel restaurant isn’t the top-tier one they’ve eaten at before, but the family dining one. Dad looks out of place, almost anachronistic in the sharp lines of his grey suit against the warm, comfortable, rustic feel of the restaurant. There’s a girl sitting at the table across from him, about as far as she can be from him and radiating discomfort. “Sis,” Nico whispers, drawing Bianca’s attention to her, and Bianca’s back straightens accordingly; they’re supposed to be more formal in front of company, something long drilled into them by being dragged to Nonno’s diplomat parties.

“Father,” Bianca greets, inclining her head respectfully. Nico follows her lead.

When Dad rises, there’s a strange look on his face, one Nico could almost call nervousness. The girl pushes herself up too, and this close, he can see she’s anxious, hanging back like she’s scared, her gaze somewhere by their feet. “This is Hazel Levesque,” he tells them. “Your half-sister. One of my subordinates will be looking after her.”

Sister, Nico thinks, studying Hazel again. She looks nothing like them, or like Dad, but it feels right and true nonetheless. He exchanges a look with Bianca; she feels the same. “I’m Bianca,” she says, and takes Hazel’s hand firmly when she barely lifts it, like she’s unsure how she’ll be met.

“I hope you stay,” Nico says, and Bianca gives him a look. It’s an old conversation: Nico isn’t great with things like tact and appropriateness in public, with people who aren’t family. But Hazel is and when she looks at him, her smile shy, Nico can’t help but grin back reassuringly.

Then he sees her eyes are gold, and Nico blurts out, “Do you know him?”

* * *

So Nico ends up gesticulating in the middle of the restaurant to describe a boy he can’t explain knowing to Hazel, who doesn’t know anyone like him. Bianca is amused and concerned by turns, Dad is staving off his headache, and Hazel looks at him like he’s insane but she’s also very sorry she can’t help.

“Who is he?” Bianca hisses to him in the car later, on the way home. She’s clutching his arm so he can’t get away -- where would he even go, they’re in a moving car -- and her face is bright with excitement.

Nico flushes for no reason he can explain, feeling like he’s shared something he shouldn’t have. “Someone I dreamt up. No one important,” he insists.

Bianca rolls her eyes; Nico’s never been a good liar. “Tell me about him,” she says, imperious and coaxing in a way Nico will never be able to pull off. “Just try.”

She’s leaning in close and it’s easy - this is how Bianca would make him stop crying, or soothe him when he got hurt, or how she got him to tell her anything at all. Nico’s heart expands in his chest; they’ve never really had any secrets - part of him’s always wanted Bianca to know. 

“He’s just _good_ ,” Nico says, conviction bone-deep. He doesn’t have to remember when it comes to this boy - he already knows. “A hero, a real one. He’s not some character out of story, it’s who he is, like he can’t help himself, like all that good has to go somewhere. He’s stupidly loyal, and just stupid the rest of the time. He cares so much - even about people who don’t deserve it. He tries to save everyone--”

Nico’s voice breaks. Bianca catches his hands where they’d stilled mid-air, mid-gesture, and he belatedly realizes how worked up he’d gotten. His chest is tight.

“And when he fails, it’s not because he didn’t try his hardest. Some things are just too much, even for someone that strong.” Nico drops his head on Bianca’s shoulder, blinking back the inexplicable tears from his eyes. “He shines so brightly, Sis. He’s seen a lot and suffered and lost but he can still smile and laugh and make you want to hit him, despite it all.”

Silence falls in the car, and Nico can tell Bianca’s thinking, her hand in his hair, the other over his hands where they’ve clenched into fists. He’s suddenly grateful for the privacy panel between them and the driver. Moments pass; Bianca still doesn’t say anything.

“He’s not even real,” Nico mutters, starting to pull away, embarrassed. “I just dreamt him up.”

Bianca catches him and hugs him tight, reassuringly. Something in his chest loosens. “We just met Hazel, and you told her you’d dreamt of her too.” 

“But he’s not here,” Nico says sullenly.

“Be patient,” Bianca chides. “I’m sure he’s real.”

“How can you know?” Nico asks.

“Your face lights up when you talk about him,” Bianca says, warm, fond and a little exasperated, like she used to when he was younger and talked her ear off about something he liked. “He must be real, to be someone so special.”

* * *

Hazel becomes part of the family.

It’s easy because Hazel is too kind for it not to be: Mamma’s understandably awkward around her, but Hazel’s sweet and polite and wins her over. Dad still doesn’t seem like he knows what to make of her, but he does know how to deal with him and Bianca thanks to Mamma, so he just treats them as three rather than two. To him and Bianca, Hazel is everything they could have wanted in another sibling: she’s good with stories and games, and wins points with Nico because she crushes Bianca at Monopoly (money loves her). With Bianca, she’s way too good at ganging up on Nico. (So fine, Nico shouldn’t have stayed in his room and read _The Sword in the Stone_ all day -- and let Mamma’s potatoes burn -- but Mamma’s disapproval was enough, he didn’t need the matching set of exasperated looks from Bianca and Hazel too. He didn’t mean to, he just lost track of time.)

She technically stays at the hotel in the city with Alecto and a parade of tutors, but she spends so much time at their house after school or tutoring that it’s like she lives there.

It’s nice. They can play Baccarat together and Monopoly’s better with three too (Bianca doesn’t give up banker for either game). It makes Nico feel safe, to have everyone under one roof.

His dreams stop at first, but not for long.

* * *

“I’m not sorry,” Nico says stubbornly. His hands are cracked at the knuckles, but he barely notices; he must have had worse.

Mamma sighs and drops into the seat across from him, exhaustion on her face. “But to involve the _sbirri_ , Nico, your grandfather will not be happy.”

He and Hazel had gone into the town to pick up ingredients for dinner (bread and some desserts) while Bianca was still at her music lesson. He’d thought DC was safe; people come from all over here.  
They’d been there, leaning against the bicycle rack outside the bakery, and the things they said to Hazel like he wasn’t there, that Hazel had to put up with that - Nico’d seen red. He’d told Hazel to go back inside and his hip had felt empty when he’d thrown the first punch.

“They shouldn’t have said those things about Hazel!” Nico cries. “It’s not like her skin makes her any less; it’s just part of who she is.”

Mamma’s smile is sad. “People are punished for who they are every day, _mio_. To stand up for Hazel, that was right, but you cannot change everyone’s minds.”

Hazel hugs him later, and he promises to himself he’ll keep her safe.

* * *

It’s not just dreams anymore. Monsters flicker in his vision at school, hissing tongues and claws and promises of pain. The shadows yawn toward him, hungry grasping fingers reaching ( _you belong here_ ). He wakes from a nightmare screaming and no one’s there; the house looks like it has been empty for decades. 

_Is this real_? Nico asks himself. Once a day at first, then five, then too many to count.

It’s sometimes a relief when he sleeps. The boy isn’t waiting for him, but he’s there -- _you lied to me, I hate you (why don’t you hate me too), thank you, I’m sorry_ \-- and it’s too loud for any other thoughts.

* * *

They rent a house in Bar Harbor for Nico’s belated birthday present. Too early in the season for the crowds, but the town seems sleepy still. Or maybe Nico’s projecting -- it’s 5am and he’s squished in a seat between a sleeping Bianca and Hazel.

The house is big but he’s bunking with his sisters; he guesses the owners wanted a sunroom more than another bedroom. The dining room opens up into a deck lined with moonlace, with steps leading down to the beach. The March waters are choppy and chilly when Nico steps in them, but the ocean stretches forever in front of him, deep and fathomless, a perfect stranger. It’s better than the too-friendly shadows.

They spend all their time together. Mamma tries out seafood recipes from her youth and makes sure to do it early enough in the day so if it fails, they can still go out to eat. Hazel’s bolder now, and enlists them to cook recipes from her own memories sometimes. They’re different than anything Nico’s had before, but they’re amazing, spicy and vibrant with flavor.

The town is just as sleepy as Nico thought at first, just barely out of hibernation, but it has enough for them to do. The theater is small but brightly lit, and Dad takes the car out for them to sightsee. The air atop Cadillac Mountain catches in Nico’s lungs, but he breathes through the bite, and leans into Mamma. The wind’s so loud he can ignore the whispers of _we’ll leave you, who would want you anyway_.

They take back fudge and truffles from the local stores and in the evening, they sit by the fire wrapped in blankets, sharing them. Mamma’ll read to them, or corner Dad into it, and Nico tries to let the words wash over him, instead of the pictures he gets at _lamia_ and _manticore_.

What he can ignore during the day, he can’t always at night, but Bianca and Hazel wrap around him sometimes, and their reassurances lull him back to sleep.

* * *

_He falls and falls and falls. The void swallows him._

Nico wakes up.

* * *

It’s 3:43am and Nico knows he isn’t going back to sleep. He creeps downstairs silently, not wanting to disturb anyone, but he’s not alone. Dad’s sitting on the living room couch overlooking the ocean, and the moon is full, painting him a deathlier white than Nico’s used to seeing. Nico sinks to the floor by Dad’s feet and tries to speak, but can’t; something will shatter if he does.

“You’re making yourself ill,” Dad says, gaze distant, fixed on the breaking waves. “Your mother’s concerned.”

Nico reacts as he always does, a mixture of affection and shame creeping on his cheeks. Mamma shouldn’t have to worry about them, but he likes that she does all the same. “I’ve been having bad dreams,” Nico mutters, meaning it to be dismissive.

Dad grunts. “That’s an understatement. Your ‘dreams’ are pulling this world apart.” Nico’s gaze flies to him, confused, but Dad looks at him then, eyes darker than a void. “Ask,” he tells Nico. “Ask what you already know.”

Shadows swim in Nico’s vision, fear a smooth-edged blade through the ribs, and every dream anchored in his skin drags on the way up, barbed with dread. The heat of the boy’s hand, the brightness of his eyes, Hazel’s tremulous smile in a sea of gray, death and darkness in every guilty breath. “This isn’t real.” Nico’s can’t breathe. “The nightmares are.”

Hades’ silence is enough and Nico sways where he kneels. Mamma and Bianca, a lifetime with their little house and cozy kitchen and even now, memories together. He can’t imagine it; he clings to what he knows, their warm hugs and teasing and affection.

But the other world seeps in too, and Nico thinks of the boy, drowning. Hades already knows. “Even if you go back, he doesn’t need you to save him.”

“But I can help.” Something twinges in Nico’s memory. “We could--”

“I have no power here,” Hades interrupts. “You’ll be on your own. All you’re hearing and feeling now is a shadow of what you’ll experience if you wake up and leave _her_ protection.” 

Her, Nico thinks blankly, but can’t bring himself to care. Hades’ gaze bores into him. “You have two options before you. Stay. It won’t be real but an idyllic life with everyone you could want isn’t a bad option. Or leave. You may survive but Tartarus will hurt you. Every one of those memories she restored to you will be twisted until you struggle to remember what was real.”

Real, not real, _not real_ , it echoes in his mind. But he could stay, ignore the shadows and monsters and splintered moments now that he knows; he doesn’t remember what the nightmare world has for him, not in full, but he thinks it might be worth it, to have this, to grow old and make Mamma, Bianca and Hazel proud.

Hazel, who’s struggling in his dreams, the happy image of her a figment. The boy, who fills his thoughts like air when he remembers him, makes him hunt for familiarity in the features of everyone he meets, who he owes and owes and can never repay if he stays here. They’re real, and he’s not strong enough to be the one to save them, but he has to be able to do something.

Nico presses the heels of his palms to his eyes until red slashes across the darkness. His voice is hollow, thought cored out because if it weren’t, he would change his mind. “How do I go back?”

Hades pauses long, like he doesn’t want to answer, then finally, “How do you wake up from a dream?”

 _Oh_.

He hears the sounds of his father moving, making to leave: upstairs, back to his mother. “Is there more?” Nico asks desperately, hugging himself; if he goes upstairs too, he’ll never be able to pull himself away. He needs to know - his nightmares (memories, visions) are bleak, with only slivers of light breaking through, but that can’t be an entire existence. “More in the other world than what I’m dreaming.”  


Hades pauses on the stairwell, heavily by how it creaks. “Not much more,” he says quietly, and Nico’s heart breaks all over again.

* * *

Moonlight bathes his face, bright as day, and the ocean greets Nico like an old friend. It laps at his ankles, an icy embrace, reeling him in like a hooked fish. The current swirls by his feet, gentle until he hesitates, because the next step will submerge him.

A riptide pulls him under, and he can only be grateful. Then the panic sets in, bone deep and futile to resist. His chest is crushed, torn open; agony.

 _Breathe_.

* * *

Nico wakes up and remembers everything: past, present, future that never was. Two heartbeats pound in his chest: one long familiar (the path worn, connection soft with use), the other newer (but not left unchecked).

He lets it all seep in, remembering his father’s words. When he cries, there’s no one to comfort him.

* * *

The next time Nico wakes, it’s to a stately woman in a shift of gold metal and cloth with luminescent eyes. She towers above him, and the banked fire in her gaze clicks: _titan_.

Nico’s sword is still at his hip and he’s in a crouch with it drawn, ready to leap.

“You’re doing better than I expected,” she says, eyes crinkling with humor. “I’m not much of a healer. Now put that down, my sisters and I aren’t interested in the wars of our husbands.”

Nico sways and collapses back against the bed frame. His side throbs. The “she” Dad had mentioned. “Titaness Theia.”

* * *

Theia found him bleeding not far from her home and seeing as she does (nothing can hide from the titaness of vision), she knew he would be two things: a diversion and a help.

She’s not like Tartarus’s other denizens and when Nico tells her that, she laughs. Theia’s in Tartarus voluntarily, waiting for her stupid husband who keeps getting himself disintegrated, and she’s tired of it. Hyperion promised her eternity, and she already knows the type of person Nico is -- he’ll help her make him keep that promise, especially if her plan is to occupy Hyperion too much for him to cause trouble. She just requires some of his blood, she tells him, and Nico hesitates, but it’s futile. She could have bled him dry if she’d wanted.

Instead she healed him, saw the memories lost to him, and returned them. He remembers now, more than he thought possible: being pushed into Dad’s arms when he was too small to remember, Mamma’s voice a low hum (“Children need to know their heritage, love.”); caroling with Mamma and Bianca in the weeks before Christmas (“Nico, _tesoro mio_ , sing with us, not over us!”); touring Italy with his family, the language welling on his tongue when he and Bianca tried to copy the new words they encountered (“Ssh, you’re not allowed to say that one!”). It’s a gift, worth more than all the blood in his body.

(Even if it hurts more than drowning, and his hands grow bloodier every time he picks a memory, turns it over in his head.)

“Why?” he asks Theia later -- why save him, why give them back when it wasn’t her who took them in the first place.

“You’ll need them,” she says, the light in her eyes too bright to look at. Her touch is gentle on his side even as he flinches away; he’s almost healed from where he was gored, escaping Gaea’s minions, at least for now. “And I was curious. We don’t interact with many mortals, not like the Olympians. Our husbands think of you as vermin, but you change the tides of the war. So much power from so little to work with. Your lives are eternity, compressed into a second. You feel so intensely and lose so much. You break, or you keep going, keep hoping.” She replaces the dressing, binding it so tight he winces. “You’re unpredictable. You created a world while you were comatose and you were so happy, I didn’t expect you’d be able to leave.”

Nico closes his eyes. The heartbeats in his chest, fewer than there should be. He keeps his memories close.

* * *

Time has no meaning here, so Nico doesn’t know when he leaves, or how long it’s been; he left as soon as he was able, and that has to be enough.

“Thank you,” he tells Theia. He hesitates, thinking of Hyperion. “Good luck.”

She smiles at him. “You’ll need more luck than me.” Her eyes gleam when she sees. 

Will I make it out, Nico thinks, but doesn’t ask.

“One last question,” she says, squeezing his hand. “Why didn’t you conjure him like you did your other loved ones?”

“I don’t--” he says, and swallows the rest when she just looks at him. Theia, the all-seeing, a bright light on his memories, on things he can’t name. Nico breathes, burying that too. _Don’t let them twist it_. Tartarus edges his vision, held at bay by her glow.

Percy, whose smile is brighter. 

“He’s not mine.”

* * *

Dad’s warning isn’t enough. The question wasn’t whether he’d make it out; it was _in what condition_.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Nico suddenly having excellent memories in _House of Hades_.


End file.
